Life. As I see it.

Its funny when I realize that there are some days when it seems that I had gotten up on the wrong side of the bed. Or rather, the right side of a wrong bed !

I have had many such days & it so happens that everytime I feel that my luck has departed me. In a drunken stupor. When am facing the enemy gunfire. Nothing seems to go right on such days. What do I do about it ? Well, I write.

Lets take today for example. Waking up late was only a precursor to what was about to happen to me. Actually, I am so certain of the glaring absence of my luck, I am sure waking up late only postponed the inevitable. Lets take you one night back. I was out with my friends, getting drunk, over the tales of a friend finally breaking up with his bitchy girlfriend.

It was no ordinary celebration. It started with the usual way though, with everybody ordering Buds. Once, one Bud met the other in the stomach, a plan was hatched. The Buds decided that they were going to party hard tonight. The stomach had to let it the two martinis who showed up for the party, dressed up in black, suave. The Buds & The Martinins started to know each other well and were starting to loosen up when hearing the ruckus, the Russians showed up, introducing themselves as Mr & Mrs Smirnoff. Now the party was certainly getting into the groove and the stomach was plum with satisfaction. Another knock on the door. In a typical western movie entrance, three cowboy Borbourn brothers from the state of texas showed up. Well, though a little hesitant to let them enter, the stomach let them in, thinking that NOW the party was EPIC ! But wait. A mexican gatecrashed the party. Wearing a red, green, yellow striped hat the Tequilla announced itself. You should know one fact about these mexican rogues. They never travel along. They always move in a gang. Suddenly before the stomach could really apprehend, four tequillas barged in ! That was the time when my stomach called the curtains on the party and I puked.

to be continued....in good jest, later

How many times has it happened that you find yourself humming the same song for a week or thinking about the play you saw last week ? There are times when I absent-mindedly pick up a book and while reading, it strikes a chord somewhere deep. Causes me to stop. To ponder.
All these small mental stimulations work so well in lifting the overbearing routine'ness from our lives. We need to pay more attention towards them & learn to appreciate them even more...
For me, the written word does it !
It is the spring in the step of my emancipated soul. There re times, when a written line or a quote stays with me for a number of days and there are also times when a friend mails me 3 lines of brilliance that she wrote the night ago in a tumultuous emotional frenzy.
Words more than speak to me. They make me feel as if I belong. Literature is my poison. Something I cant do without.

Rest, laters.
Aby

an ode to floyd..

sacred flags and the wing
bless the unprepared
division bells ringing
offset the trance
breathless guitar
nearing an orgasm
slowly the words
come pouring out
a dream on verge
of coming to life
lifts you up
and flies away
to the other side
a secret wish
emanates from
a mouth gone dry
and it gets louder
the crisp notes
of the music blessed
pour on the vodka
the illusion is alive and kicking....

undone stitches

An excruciating white winter morning

The had been wood in the fireplace

Sweeps a nostalgic aroma across the room

The china glass lies on top of another

Whisky stains on the percian rug

Paint a myriad picture

of a gone by stormy night

Its funny how the wrinkle

Impartially partitions the forehead

The forehead I used to kiss everyday

Before going off to work for the grey suits

You were so naïve then

Loved me without a grey shadow in your heart

Your eyes, how I remember them

Shining with puerile innocence

Asking a thousand myriad questions

Each time they saw me leaving for work

It was a cold evening when it happened

I was coming home, driving

The image blurred by too fast

But the blood stains on the tarmac

Tugged hard the corner of my eye

The severed limb seemed unusually small

It was covered with shards of glass

The sudden numbness I felt

Or maybe it was the overpowering urge

To see your soothing face, I drove on

The blood, the twisted metal behind me.

Frantic calling of your name

Brought me back only empty silence

Your room looked bare without you

The yellow on the wall looked pale

I should have stopped my car

But how could I have known

Forgive me, my son

How could I have known

Now I met you last night

After what have been

Many a countless full moons

You looked radiant as ever

Angels have been taking care of you

You talked your heart out

Last night, in your baby words

Before you flew away

To the bright full moon

Leaving me an old and lonely man

Forgive me my son

But how could I have known

gravedigger

burning lilies catch my attention
they have been resting neglected
since the week forgotten by.
they were soaked with tears
now they lie sorrowful themselves
the dust of neglectance screams out loud
with the goner, has gone the concern.

the soil is still impregnated
with the footprints of the loved.
the goner, had no footprints indeed
the ground is soggy and damp
the mastiff has been here since a week
clawing out the dirt, digging the mud
trying to find the inexistant.

it kills me with sorrow
seeing its dull, misty eyes
but provided me with a reaffirmance
that all is not lost in the end
when thread-bare relationships
feign a woeful ignorance to the snapping
of the already beaten-down threads
there are some, who choose to make a difference.


i am a grave-digger i dig the graves i make them shallow so they can feel the rain..............

can you see it ?

can you see it ?
the face
glowing over tired dreams
flowinf effortlessly
merging with the nerve stream
runnig through my body.
the face
howering beneath my brow
knocking day
knocking night
to see if i exist
beyond the living
a face
hollow but heavy
weighing in my eyelids
putting me to sleep
only to wake me up
in the middle of the night
screaming
letting me a piece
of her broken emotions
can you see the face ?
that of the lady
that died
only because
i could not rush through
to save her, from herself..

sepia dreams

sepia dream

recurring memories
of a sepia undertone
clutching that soul
refusing to let go
of the past
that no longer is.
she wakes up
sweating profusely
the memories are back
haunting her once again
again in sepia undertones
she gets up
face glistening with droplets
goes to the closet
it has to be there
the skeleton
that once was a body
her body.

jaypore

For j,

Black asphalt beckons
stirs u the wanderlust
you by my side
throttle caresses the floor
like a taut silken string
thats been plucked
our bodies are vibrating
to the din of the engine
to the guitar being seduced
your gaze poses questions
questions, whose answers
we both know
have known ever since
i lean into you
to steal a kiss
but how has ever
a thing been stolen
when its already yours
we say no more
the guitar exhales
a low note
a sigh goes unnoticed....